


In Your Bones

by Team_Hardigan



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Team_Hardigan/pseuds/Team_Hardigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme:</p>
<p>After released Blackgate convicts whom Blake helped arrest brutalize him and leave him for dead in the snow, he is found by Bane.  While hardly a gentle man, there are some crimes which even Bane is intolerant of, and while he knows he cannot heal all Blake's wounds, he finds compelled to do his best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There will be NO healing cock in this, just to be clear. 

 

1.  
John’s blood went cold when he heard the whistle from behind him. He palmed the chalk he’d just used to mark the building behind him, carefully tossing it without making a show of it before turning to see the group of men moving towards him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, walking at an easy but swift gait. Gotham was a city turned upside down, with the unleashing of previously incarcerated criminals upon the streets stirring the pot further still. John didn’t recognize anyone at first glance, but as cops were being hunted down like dogs he wasn’t about to stick around and find out whom they were. The few cops left hid their identities carefully, meeting in secret and otherwise avoiding one another's company. 

“Wait up!” a voice called from behind him, sharp over the catcalls and whistles of the rest of the group. 

John looked ahead of him, the streets too busy to take a run for it. Gotham had become unpredictable, unsteady. Good everyday citizens had joined the ranks of Bane and his mercenaries, tearing the city apart. They took what they wanted, both goods they coveted and revenge from those they blamed for their previous strife. He’d seen one of his fellow cops descended upon by convicts still in their orange jumpsuits, almost quite literally ripped apart. John couldn’t take the chance to run just yet, not until he knew for sure he’d been made. He turned, a tight smile forced as he tried to survey the faces of each man. He couldn’t place them, but knew he’d seen several of them before. 

“Did you need something?” John asked, trying his damndest to sound pleasant. 

The chuckles which followed chilled him, and he forced himself to hold his ground as they moved closer still. If he could get himself out of this without making a scene, it would be well worth it. 

“You look real familiar,” one of the thugs said, still advancing on him. 

John shook his head, his feet itching to run. "Sorry man," he tried, his head shaking. “Can’t say the same.”

One of the cons stepped forward, a tall thick man with tattoos creeping up onto his neck from beneath the lapels of his jacket. It was with cold sinking realization that John realized where he knew the man from. The thug was shaking his head now, a dark smile spreading. "Don't remember me, officer Blake?"

John was off like a shot, his feet pounding against the pavement. He could hear them pursuing, but was more concerned with keeping his vision from blurring with panic. He just had to keep going, stay focused and gain some distance so he could hide. He just needed to hide. 

John knew the city well, but the panic was beginning to set in. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the streets and the buildings, not let his mind fill with visions of his fellow officer being dragged to the middle of the street, beaten down until he was a pulpy mass of bone and gore.   
He darted down a side alley, taking a familiar path he used to run as a teen when he was late for curfew at the boys’ home. He clutched the side of the building as he swung around it, heading down the familiar street. But he was getting further into town, getting closer to the center of the city where he was more likely to be taken down like a dog by the newly “liberated” citizens of Gotham. He made a split decision and doubled back, turning down a different street to take him back to the outskirts. He’s breathing heavy now, chest tight and throat dry as he tried to suck in cold air. 

John knew he couldn’t hold on much longer and ducked behind a dumpster. He took rough breaths through his nose, eyes darting around to try and catch any sign of his pursuers. On reflex, John reached down for his radio, before remembering that it wasn’t there. He’d faced dangerous situations as a cop, it came with the territory, but this was different. John knew this time there’s be no backup, no one was coming to his aid. He was on his own once again, but this time he didn’t even have Father Reilly to run to. 

John wiped the cold sweat from his face, glancing back behind him before scanning the area. He didn’t hear anything, not that he was even sure he could over his own thundering heart. He knew he had to move, that just because he didn’t hear them didn’t mean they weren’t still looking. Taking one last deep breath, John pushed himself off the ground to take off like a shot down the street. 

He never saw the fist coming, just felt the pain explode at the side of his head. He crumpled immediately, his blurred vision barely making out the gathering figures above him. 

“Officer Blake,” he heard, just before everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings this chapter, please.

His head was foggy as he came to, knowing he should be panicked as his memories finally came creeping back, but all he could feel was the biting cold. The still unintelligible voices about him dripped with a festering hatred John doubted could be directed solely at him. A cloud of malice enveloped him, squeezing against his chest like talons until John was sure he would be crushed by it. 

John shook his head to clear it, immediately stopping when a wave of nausea washed over him. He turned over onto his front only to find his shaking hands sinking into something chilly and wet. Snow.

John squeezed his eyes shut before blinking several times, his vision finally focusing enough to see his bare hands thrust into several inches of snow. Fresh flakes drifted into his eyes, catching in his lashes. He tried to remember where he was, but all he knew in the moment was the throbbing pain in his head. The fingers he pressed to it came away tacky with blood. Finally the panic was setting back in as Blake remembered that he’d been running from these men, that they knew he was a cop. 

“Where are you going, Blake?”

John shook his head, ice biting into his knees as he tried to crawl forward, the movement made difficult by tremors which wracked him. John tried to remember his training for crisis scenarios, tried to find an exit but all he could see were the boots and looming figures of the men about him, ever present and unrelenting. A boot on his ass pushed him face first into the snow, his bewildered state making him unable to hold himself up. The snow was wet on his face and chest, painful against his exposed cock. John finally came to a fuzzy realization that he was completely naked and shivering, his hand just managing to find it’s way to cup his vulnerable genitals. 

“Got somewhere to be, Officer?”

John shook his head, trying again to crawl forward. Perhaps if he could just gain some distance the men would give up and leave him to his own degradation. He desperately clung to the hope that he could leave with his life. Strong hands wrapped themselves around his bare ankles, dragging him back the meager length he’d traveled. John kicked out weakly in frustration, anger welling up as he tried once more to drag himself forward. He’d always wanted to be a cop, always to be part of the team to clean up this rotting city and make it safer for other lost boys like he’d been. John was alone here though, no band of brothers at his back to help protect him. 

The hands returned, immediately dragging him back with more laughter from the other men standing about him. “No running off, bitch,” one said, sinking John’s stomach.

He shook his head, hope fading fast. “I don’t know you,” he tried to say, the words first caught in his throat. He took a deep breath, searching for the first man who had addressed him; the man with the icy blue eyes and tattoos. “I don’t know you,” he said again, insistent and more even. 

The thug was hardly impressed, holding out the familiar walkie talkie which Blake morosely recalled having in his back pocket; the portable he used to keep in touch with Gordon while on patrols. “Yes, you do,” he said, the smile spreading his uneven lips sinister, finite. Then John did know him, remembered shooting him in the back with a taser when the guy tried to flee the scene. He remembered the look of shock and panic as the guy came down from the tremors, remembered how the guy had pissed his pants. A normal reaction to the electric shock, but the guy became all the more volatile in the back of the squad car as John read him his rights and reminded him armed robbery was a federal offense. 

A hard boot slammed into his side as though the thug was remembering the incident along with him, tossing John back down into the snow. He dry heaved from the force of it, his gut clenching in distress. Frigid air burned at his throat as he coughed, his body curling into a ball. “The wrong guy,” he choked out. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“You forget me too?” another man asked, stepping forward until he was standing directly over John’s shivering form. John kept his eyes downcast, not meeting the clear invitation. He felt even more laid bare by cowardice, naked further as he knew these men could see it too. A dog with its tail between its legs, knowing its punishment was coming though unsure as to the method. 

“I wouldn’t forget you,” a third said, sinking down beside John and jerking his head back with a fistful of his dark hair. “Not my first time inside, but thinking about that cock sucker mouth of yours sure made it sweeter.”

John’s punishment seemed to unfold to him with lethal clarity. He furrowed his brow, jaw setting tight as he wrenched himself free from the dark haired man’s hold. The man’s breath was foul, clouding and hovering in John’s face and hardly helping his still churning stomach. He didn’t ask what they wanted, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

The guy with rancid breath stood, thumbs hooking in his waistband. “Get on your knees,” he ordered. John shook his head, jaw clamped shut as he tried to not think about where this was obviously leading. He glanced down the street, hoping to see anyone who could come to his aid, any of his fellow officers or even the still missing and unaccounted for Dark Knight himself. 

“No one’s coming, sweetheart,” the third said. “Now get on your fucking knees.” He stood straighter and began to unbuckle his pants, pulling them open to reveal reddish pubic hair and the underside of a swastika tattoo. “You’re sucking my cock, officer,” the word dripped from between his teeth with mocking reverence. “Whether you keep your teeth is up to you.”

Frosty air pulled at his nostrils as John dragged in shuddering breaths. He glared up at Swastika, the man’s shark-like teeth bared as he grinned down at him. He remembered fantasizing about pulling over while driving Bruce Wayne home, remembered wanting to turn off the engine and give him the blowjob of his life. Now, with Bruce possibly dead and John likely to follow the same path, he wished more than ever he’d actually done it. 

John looked at the swelling cock before him, listened to the self satisfied snickering from the three men around him as anger billowing inside him. He moved up to his knees, trying not to wince at the aching in his frozen legs. The other two moved behind him, pushing at the back of his head. John jerked away from their pawing hands, casting a bitter snarl over his shoulder before looking up at Swastika. The man pursed his lips, blowing John a farce of a kiss before gesturing down at his crotch. “It’s not going to suck itself, sweetheart. I feel any teeth and you’ll lose them, got me?”

John nodded, every muscle in his body coiling. Movement behind Swastika caught John’s eye, and with almost ethereal reverence he realized he saw one of the possible bomb trucks roll between a gap in two buildings. If the trucks were on the move, it would mean there were other cops nearby, there would be help. Before he could let fear weaken his resolve, John threw out a fist, punching Swastika in the dick as hard as he could. It wasn’t going to win him any awards in the ring, but it made the man cry out and fall forwards, giving John a chance to bolt before Tattoos or Blondie could get a hold of him. 

“Get him!” John heard from behind. He didn’t dare look back to see how close they were. His body was stiff from the cold and his head woozy from the previous attack. He wouldn’t last long but didn’t have far to go. He could see the signs of the buildings now, could see one of the armored cars still driving by. Any lookouts would still be there, would wait to get a proper reading on the truck. John called out but his throat was dry and breath was short. He managed a strangled cry which was much too pitiful to be heard over the hum of the engines. Everything hurt, his whole body felt on the verge of cracking like it was made from the ice and not just chilled by it. 

Strong hands gripped him by the nape, twisting him just enough for John’s own momentum to send him tumbling to the frozen ground. All the air was forced from his lungs as he landed hard on his back, his vision swimming for a moment. Tattoos was on top of him, between John’s legs with his hands wrapped around John’s throat to hold him steady. John thought he tasted blood in his mouth.

“No teeth,” he choked out, the small defiance enough to make Tattoos’ eyes narrow in anger. 

The man pulled freed a hand to smack John violently across the face, his head slamming back against the ground. Hands were on John then, dragging him back through the snow, holding him down. Blondie had his wrists over his head, Tattoos was working at his belt. 

“Flip him over,” Swastika said, hand rubbing his gentials which John hoped hurt like hell. 

Tattoos shook his head, gripping John by the jaw. “I like looking at this pretty face.” John finally began thrashing when Tattoos let go of his jaw and began undoing his pants. He tried kicking, jerked at his arms and tried to roll away, his mind reeling as he realized that there was no avoiding what was about to happen. When Tattoos spit down onto himself, John wanted to vomit, his breath hitching and eyes burning in anger and shame. 

The first push in tore John’s breath with a strangled sob, his entire body tensing at the intrusion. The thrusts were hard, jarring, hateful. They rocked John against the bitter snow beneath him, where he wasn’t numb yet it felt like needles digging into him. He knew he was torn inside, on fire between his legs. He arched his back, trying to make it hurt less, tried to pull up his knees, but could barely move. Tattoos was above him, the pleasure written across his face churning John’s stomach. John wanted to cover his face, not let them see the pain and tears which he couldn’t prevent, but Blondie’s grip on him was unrelenting. He let his head fall to the side, eyes falling on the unmistakable steeple of the boy’s home where he grew up. For the first time in his life, John felt what it was like to want to be home. 

Harsh fingers gripped his jaw, ripping John’s eyes from the steeple and back to Tattoos. The man’s fingers brushed down his cheeks to his throat, squeezing in a non-verbal warning. “You look at me while I fuck you,” he sneered. 

John spat in his face. The resulting slaps this earned him stunned him, rang in his ears and blessedly drowned out the ugly jeers from the other men above him. He found himself flipped over on his belly, his knees spread wide until his thighs trembled. A hand slapped his ass hard enough to make him jerk in pain. His ass burned on the inside, his gut clenching as he was entered again. John buried his face into the snow, letting it muffle the noise as he sobbed. His hands fisted, nails biting angrily into his palms. Hands pushed his back down, forcing it to arch and prop his ass up. He winced when Tattoos gripped his hips and jackhammered into him, his teeth grinding until he was surprised they hadn’t cracked. His stomach rolled when a wet heat spread through him inside, and he knew the man had cum. 

As soon as the man behind him stood and adjusted himself, John shakily pushed himself onto his hands and knees, by now numb to the cold enveloping him. He could feel Tattoo’s spunk trickling out of him, and promptly dry heaved. He thought it was over until Blondie raised a hand slapped Tattoo on the back. “Tag me in, brother,” he said, advancing towards John. 

John shook his head pleadingly. “Please…” he tried, no matter how futile. 

Blondie dropped down to his knees behind John, gripping him by the hair when John tried to shrink away. He felt the man opening his pants behind him, knew he was getting ready. He felt a hand swipe at his ass, gathering the fluids there. John was shaking now, barely able to move. 

“Please….don’t…”

Blondie pulled John up until he was kneeling upright, his back pressed to Blondie’s chest. The man gripped him by his throat, holding him in place as he positioned himself. Thick hot tears rolled down John’s cheeks, blurring his vision as they welled up in his lashes. It hurt so badly when the man pressed inside him, and John wondered if it would ever stop hurting, if his body would ever take pity on him and just let him stop feeling. 

His jaw was gripped head tilted up. Swastika was back before him, wiping the tears from his eyes in a mock display of intimacy. “Let’s try this again, sweetheart,” he said, forcing John’s mouth open. 

John gagged, breath caught. He wanted to bite, wanted to sever this fucking bastard’s prick and listen to him howl, but with a deeper shame than John ever wanted to think he’d reach, he realized he was too afraid. He was paralyzed, unable to do anything but kneel there and take it, choke and gag while his throat was battered. He could barely breathe, his head swimming until he thought maybe he’d be lucky enough to pass out. John never had been lucky. 

They took their turns with him, slapping or choking him when when he showed any hesitation or defiance. He finally lay limp, no longer even whimpering when a thrust was particularly harsh or a hand gripped him too tight. It wasn’t until Swastika palmed his balls and squeezed them seemingly as hard as he could that John finally let out a broken sob of pain again. The man twisted John’s balls cruelly, watching them turn an angry red from the abuse. He seemed amused by this, urging Blondie to fuck John harder while he continued. 

The other two men seemed satisfied after using John’s body to their full, but Swastika continued his little torments, allowing them to escalate until he kicked John hard enough for the young cop to roll over and vomit. He then rolled John onto his back, straddling him and pulling something from the pocket of his coat. John felt an uncomfortable scratching on his chest, too sore and weak to even bat him away. When he was finished, he reached down to ruffle John’s hair with a “Thanks for the ride, Officer,” before standing. John closed his eyes, imagined one of them pulling out a gun and shooting him in the head before walking away. He expected it to happen, was almost resigned to it. 

Nothing happened. When John opened his eyes again, he saw them walking away, animated as they slapped one another on the back, congratulatory. John let his head fall to the side, looking for any sign of life about him, but the streets were barren. He didn’t want to make a sound, worried the men would return. 

Snowflakes tickled over his frozen nose and lips, wintery winds dusting them over his battered naked body. He watched the snow trickling down from the sky with eyes hooded from fatigue, aware after a time that the shivers which had previously wracked his body had subsided. He knew the throbbing in his ass should have been more painful, knew that he should be freezing cold, that he should be calling for help. He knew after surviving thus far he should try to live, but all John wanted to do was close his eyes and slip away. So he did. 

 

Bane raised a hand to Barsad, his second in command immediately slowing the SUV to a halt. They were in the middle of exploratory patrols, rarely stopping unless one of Bane’s fellow mercenaries hailed them with a discovery. Gotham was responding gloriously to its liberation, the uprising of the disenfranchised swift and without mercy. The city burned with little aid from Bane or his league, those citizens previously cast aside only too happy to take what had previously been denied to them. Bane would not have chaos though. Talia’s plans would see their fruition, and it would not do for the city to burn too fast, the scales to tip too far. 

Without question, Barsad followed Bane out of the car and towards Bane’s find. The man crossed his arms over his chest, raising a brow in Bane’s direction when his leader came to a stop before the naked body lying motionless, almost hidden beneath the fresh snow. 

Bane methodically crouched with a grunt, reaching a steady hand to brush the snow to reveal the face of a young man, face pale but mottled with ugly dark bruising, dried blood caked below his nose and smeared around a cut above his brow. There was something written on the young man’s chest, Bane’s thick fingers wiped over it to bare the words “dead cop” which had been written in large thick letters in what appeared to be permanent marker. 

Bane’s breath wheezed gently through his mask as he took in the battered body, the small bruises littered about his hips and neck, the rings of crushing fingers about his slim upper arms and unmistakable hand prints about his wrists. Bane sighed as he noted the smeared blood and dried deed between the youth’s thighs, raising two thick fingers to the abused throat to check for a pulse. It was weak, but present. The bruising on his side was troublesome, the angry bruising indicative of broken ribs. If his lungs were punctured, there was nothing they could do. Without looking up, Bane waved to Barsad, pointing to the bruising on the cop’s ribs. 

Barsad crouched, fingers pressing methodically along the area. “Two are fractured,” he said. He found the femoral pulse point near the man’s groin and waited. “He should live.”

Bane nodded, standing. He shrugged out of his coat, handing it to Barsad. The other man took it, but offered him a questioning look as Bane crouched and pulled the limp body up into his arms. 

“He’s GCPD,” Barsad said, not moving to stop his leader. “These were expected casualties.”

Bane ignored him, carrying the young man back to the SUV. He waiting for Barsad to open the back door before setting the prone body in the back seat. He took his coat back from Barsad and draped it over the naked form, careless for the blood and dirt which he knew would soil it.

“You invite trouble,” Barsad warned him. “Your broken bird will fly back to Gordon the first chance he gets.”

Bane lumbered back into the SUV, waving Barsad to follow. The other man followed the order, placated to have stated his concerns aloud. He knew they would have little impact, given the nature of young man’s injuries, but as always Barsad would stand by his comrade. He just had to ensure the boy didn’t become too big a distraction.


End file.
